


Dean's Goodbye

by Heidigard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5x18, Bleak, Dean Says Yes, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e18 Point of No Return, Gen, Motel room, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Sad, Saying Yes, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidigard/pseuds/Heidigard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set right at the beginning of 5x18 – What if Sam hadn’t come?<br/>Dean says goodbye to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean's Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> I unearthed this somewhere in the depths of my HD and wondered why I never posted it. Then I re-watched the episode in question to put it into perspective and I was so, so shocked: I had completely and utterly forgotten how GOOD Supernatural once was! What a shame... So here it is. For old times' sake.

You stand in front of the mirror, bottle raised to salute your reflection. Uncapping it, you take a hearty swig to start you on the way to a nice, warm state of drunkenness.

  
Also, you plan on leaving the hangover to Michael as a welcoming present to his new human body and you are secretly gleeful that like this you’ll get back at him, after all. Just a little. He deserves it.

  
You put the bottle down and shrug out of your trademark leather jacket, which you carefully role up to stuff into a cardboard box. All of your life is going to fit in there, you know. Carefully folded up clothing, the gun, wallet, fake IDs… All of your life that you’ve lived out of a trunk. Now it pays off that you don’t need to clean up much before you go.

  
You take another draught from the bottle, feeling it burn down you throat. For once, you are enjoying the sensation, the pain of alcohol, savouring the slow decent of the hot liquid. You put the bottle down on the dresser and turn to face the mirror. Closely watching yourself in it, you unbutton your shirt with steady fingers. After the last button is opened you let the garment slide to the floor.

  
Your arms and chest are muscular, well-built. Michael will be happy. He aught to be thankful you’ve kept in such good shape. The only marks that mare you skin are the black sun-like tattoo that is keeping you free from the demons of hell, even if it does nothing to keep your personal demons at bay, and the hand-shaped mark, now faded to a light pink, where Castiel once touched you and dragged you out into the light again. You can’t really decide if you wouldn’t rather have had him let you rot in hell and spare you the pain you are going through now.

  
You trace the handprint with gentle fingers. It’s not raised and angry any more, just another patch of skin. You take a breath of familiar motel air and blow it out slowly. Looking up and into the eyes of your mirror image you slowly unzip your trousers and push them down, along with your underwear, kicking off your shoes and socks to get rid of the denim.

  
Just like that, you are completely naked. You stare at yourself, examining your body with an appraising eye. If you are honest with yourself, you are proud of what you see. The years have been more than kind to you.

  
Running your hand along the outside of your muscular thigh, gripping on firm buttock, dragging a finger nail over the back of your scrotum… you try to imagine how it will be not to feel any of this, the dark, wiry hair, the smooth skin, muscles underneath, the warmth…

  
You watch your hand glide along your side, over the ridges of your ribs, then travelling down the trail from your navel to you penis, sliding along its length, measuring it and feeling its weight in your palm. You are well equipped, you know, but you find no pride in that fact now. It’s a shame this part of your anatomy will go to waste.

  
For a moment you think about pleasuring yourself for one last time, but then you just opt for examining yourself from all sides, curious, like a child first discovering the use of a mirror, or like a demon examining his new meat suit. Your body already feels alien to you.

  
You turn a little, looking at your reflection over your shoulder. It’s hard to believe that this is really you. It’s even harder to imagine that you are truly going to give this up but you have no choice. You turn back to face yourself, pick up the bottle and take another mouth full of amber liquid, slopping some of it down your chest and _watching_ the tiny drops slide down, _feeling_ them slide down, catching in the fine hairs on your pectoral muscles and it sends shivers up your spine.

  
Each breath is sweet.

  
Each heart beat hurts.

  
You stare at your hands, flipping them over a few times, flexing the fingers. Then you transfer your gaze to your feet, wriggling the toes into the carpet floor.

  
It feels good.

  
You sigh again, lifting your head to stare into the eyes of your reflection. They are green. It’s a nice colour and you marvel at it, leaning closer to catch every last detail of the interwoven light and dark streaks colouring your irises. You never quite appreciated the delicate beauty.

  
Your breath fogs up the glass and you wipe it away without thinking, leaving finger prints where before there was only mist. Then you bend down to pick your hunting knife out of the heap that is your trousers.

  
You turn the blade, seeing the light reflect off of it. With a precise little motion you cut your left thumb and watch a drop of blood well up, slide down your finger in a crimson trail. Another drop follows.

  
Then another.

  
Your blood, pumping through your veins.

  
Yours.

  
Your life.

  
Now it’s dripping on the carpet but you don’t care, watching fascinated as the flow slows down until a fat, ruby drop beads over the wound and seems to hang there forever. You stick the digit into your mouth, cleaning it, at the same time feeling the rough texture of your tongue on your skin and tasting the salty, metallic tang of blood. You never thought about the taste of blood, but now all at once it makes you feel nauseous and curious for more.

  
Looking up from under your lashes, you lock eyes with your reflection and force your facial muscles into a smile.

  
This is goodbye. You’ve written down your last wishes. There is nothing more to say - except “yes”. Shaking your head you decide that you still think in a way that’s far too rational, too sober, so you down half the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one long swallow. You know that it would give you alcohol poisoning to drink any more but that really doesn’t matter now so you stretch out on the bed and stare at the ceiling, occasionally taking another sip.

  
Your life is not exactly flashing before your eyes but you allow the old memories to play out in a random fashion, both joyous and painful, muffled by a cosy blanket of alcohol. It’s not true that you don’t care. You just don’t care _enough_ any more, you think as you imagine Sam’s shocked face when he finds out what you did.

  
By the time the bottle is empty and you sit up to call for Michael, the room is swimming and the bed feels like it might throw you off at any moment, surging and rolling like a ship in a storm.

  
You are not afraid. The whisky took care of that, just as you intended, and you feel too lazy to think over your decision yet again, which is good.

  
Another good thing is that you are one of those drunks whose verbal talents are enhanced by intoxication and you have no trouble reciting the Enochian chant you heard Zachariah use to call down a certain archangel.

  
White light fills all your vision.

~ the end? ~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback = Heaven. :)


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